Prague Spring
by CaptainPetrov
Summary: A story inspired greatly by Les Miserables. Please leave comments with your opinions! I really want to know peoples' impressions of this.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer and Information:

The following characters are my characters. Some traits and aspects of personality were based on Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. I am merely connecting parallels between Czechoslovakia, with the Soviet invasion of August 21, 1968, and Victor Hugo's wonderful tale of France in the 1830s. I thought up these characters, basing them on traits from Hugo's Les Mis or on people I know (usually some combinations). That is all! Enjoy!

Section I: Players

The early morning sun's power, severely dimmed by the ominous, surrounding clouds of rolling gray that rumbled as if they contained the roar of gods, was a reflection of Czechoslovakia's spirit. The red flag of the people billowed from the highest tower in every city. There was a heavy irony to that flag; the people were certainly not conquering armies, nor were they in charge of their own cities. The people were not in charge of much at all.

People walked the streets with the air of the defeated. The citizens lucky enough to be in the upper-class strode quickly, ignoring the grasping hands of the beggars. The bleak gray seemed to leech the very lives of the people. One man sat in the safety of the Café Dubcek, reading from a book on the table while stealing glances at the unsavory scene outside. He was approached.

Torjus Drumen set aside the copy of _Les Miserables_ and glanced up at his visitor. Or rather, visitors would be a more accurate term. He knew both of them, of course. Folded within the recesses of the book hid a list of the student revolutionaries. Torjus didn't need the list, for he had already memorized, not only the names, but the faces of his friends. He pulled the book closer. It was a terribly boring story. Why in the world had Briler been so adamant that Torjus read it? But now that Torjus was nearing the book's revolutionary section, it was beginning to pique his interest. Torjus noted many parallels between the story revolution and the one he was planning. It unnerved him. He closed the still-open book, hiding the list of memorized names from sight.

But since most people were not Torjus, they would have looked at the list. Several names were scrawled across its yellowed pages, but only a few of them are of consequence, and these would be Torjus Drumen, Benjamin Briler, Ney't'for Klausnitz, Illy Svojon, Belle (who had steadfastly refused to write her last name), Wilhelm Johan, Maria Kateel, Aravind Lubomir (the skeptic and drug addict) and Horatio Crawford, this last name belonging to the only non-native Czech (Johan had been born in Czechoslovakia but christened in Nazi Germany.)

Torjus was a charming, polite young man, yet he was a formidable opponent and quite capable of striking fear into his enemies. Bestowed with angelic beauty, his boyish girlish face could be viewed as the angels from above or the Angel of Death, depending upon who was looking. Brilliant light shone from his powerful blue eyes whenever he spoke of revolution, democracy, or the bettering of the world. He had a thick lower lip that could easily turn scornful or disdainful and a high forehead that was seldom hidden by his golden hair (unlike Briler's, which was seldom revealed). He was Antinous with the passionate spirit of Gracchus, Saint-Just, the White Rose, Lady Liberty, and anyone else who had dared to strike against an oppressive regime, but he believed in a God only because the regime did not. Torjus was as a volcano, volatile and ready to throw out bursts of light to vanquish the darkness.

After Torjus, one would have found the name Briler. If Torjus was the passionate desire, the logic of the revolution, Briler was its philosophy and peacemaker. If Torjus's polices led to war, Briler's would lead to peace. While Torjus gave fiery and moving speeches, Briler expanded upon them, added civilization to revolution, added horizon to mountain tops, added leaves to trees. If Torjus was a man, Briler was a human. Both students read, but Briler threw himself into books, theaters, lectures, everything he could get his hands on or go to. Briler held pacifist views, but he was not afraid to fight. Briler did not posses Torjus's angelic beauty, but he maintained a grace of his own. The two boys had the same colored hair, although it could be argued that Briler's was slightly darker. The two boys had the same colored eyes, but while one was an inferno of passionate desire, hidden behind the spectacles of the other was a soft candle glow; steady and bright without consumption. Aside from philosophy, Briler had studied medicine and served as a competent doctor. A gradual approach, gentle like a soft breeze; that was what Briler liked. It was better to bring humanity into harmony with destiny gradually, through the imparting of wisdom, the teaching of axioms.

Duly, we shall return to Klausnitz, but for the present, let us examine Illy Svojon. Svojon was a learned, scholarly student. Like his fellows, he pitied the people and wept for the children, but unlike Torjus and Benjamin, he found earthly love in another. He too read, but his focus was narrowed to poetry, and he learned several languages to examine the dancing words. He drew inspiration from nature and the natural beauty that surrounded him and, like many lovers of poetry, he was an introvert. He would smile vaguely and keep his head down; he would speak softly and blush at nothing. The only time he would speak out was when he was surrounded by his true friends. Unlike his counterparts, he had no beauty to call his own, but nor was he hideous. Svojon was plain, ordinary, and could fade into the background without a trace. If Torjus's voice shattered an iron gate and Briler's persuaded it to open, Svojon's slipped around it like a child sneaking through a forbidden entryway.

"Benjamin, Svojon," Torjus welcomed his two fellow students and friends, both of whom nodded in return. Benjamin Briler sat near Torjus, and blue eyes met blue eyes as the two stared at each other. Torjus then turned to Svojon. The three men formed a triangle as they sat, and they all glanced around to make certain they wouldn't be overheard.

"How is the situation?" Torjus asked.

"Like we expected," Svojon replied.

"The opposite of what we learn in the schools," Briler added. "The perfection the teachers speak of does not exist for the people, at least, not within Czechoslovakia."

"The people are not ready to fight back for their freedoms," Torjus said. It was a statement, not a question, and neither Svojon nor Benjamin challenged it.

"At least they don't believe in _Governor _Rijon," Svojon commented.

"The Governor is a stumbling man with no idea of what he does," Briler affirmed. "The only Soviet official who is both sympathetic to the downtrodden and capable of doing anything about it is Markov."

"What is Markov doing?" Torjus asked. Briler removed his glasses and wiped them on his beautiful green tailcoat while Svojon answered.

"I hear he's holding demonstrations throughout Eurasia. He's coming here, to Czechoslovakia, in one month's time."

"Will we be ready to go within a month?" Torjus inquired. For the first time, Svojon smiled.

"I believe so, Torjus. The University is almost completely barricaded. You chose the location of our holdout well. Any Soviet forces entering the city will have to pass the University, and the oppressed peoples, when they flock to join us, will be free to do so."

Torjus wasn't looking at Svojon anymore. His gaze was fixed on something outside. He stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair.

"Come on," he told Benjamin and Svojon, striding towards the exit. Svojon, noticing the scene outside, hurried after him. Benjamin, a bit more reluctant to use violence, trailed after Torjus and Svojon.

The scene outside had deteriorated further. Sef Kocicka, a disorganized but savage gang under the twin command of Shethor and Angel, had been let loose in the cobbled streets like a pack of wild dogs. They slunk from beggar to beggar, robbing the unfortunate poor of what little they had been given. The food, coins, and flyers that Benjamin and Svojon had given out on their way to the Café were the first goods to go.

The gang remained unaware of the students, plundering their helpless victims, until Torjus knocked one of them to the ground. The effect was as instantaneous as a gunshot; the beggars fled in every direction while the gang reformed, becoming a jeering mass that faced the three students. The one on the stones scrambled away from Torjus before standing and rejoining the mass.

"Well, look what we 'ave 'ere," snarled a short, fat member named Boris.

"It's those thrice-blasted students," Yeltsin jeered. Yeltsin was the only one of the gang members that appeared to be armed. A wicked-looking knife, gripped in his left hand, swung lazy circles through the air.

"You leave them alone!" Torjus commanded. His voice could be quiet and soft, as in the café, but here it was loud and powerful. The gang flinched back, momentarily cowed, but then they remembered that they well outnumbered the students.

"You shouldn't have interfered, Torjus," Shethor smirked. "These are our streets!" Shethor had an extremely annoying voice. It was the kind of voice that even Ursula would have swum away from, screaming. Unfortunately, Shethor liked to hear his own voice. One would never expect so handsome a man to have so hideous a voice. It was whispered that Shethor's voice was a warning about his true personality. Torjus, on the other hand, was an angelic figure with a voice to match. His golden blonde hair lay proudly upon his head like a crown.

Torjus stepped closer to Shethor, who stepped back. They were roughly the same height, but while Shethor's face gleamed with greed, Torjus's eyes burned with the passion of righteousness.

"Your streets, Shethor? These roads belong to the people!" Boris began to move forward, but Shethor threw out an arm. Yeltsin drew his knife across his throat and winked at Briler.

Shethor moved closer to Torjus until the two men were nose to nose.

"You do everything for the people," Shethor spat, "but you're a great fool. These people don't care about you. You think you can stop greed? And hunger? And poverty, and famine, and cruelty? No, you may be a clever boy, but you couldn't do anything like that. The world is a bitter place, and men like me," he shrugged, "just make an honest living. But men like you," Shethor smiled, "will die. You'll all die; you and all your friends, and no one will even remember what you died for."

Torjus punched Shethor. The gang leader toppled over backwards and sprang up hissing. "You'll regret that, boy!" The gang edged forward, leers of anticipation on their faces.

Just as things were about to get ugly, a Soviet officer appeared on the scene. The gang stopped advancing, watching the officer warily.

"You'll rue this day, mark my words," Shethor hissed. Then, with an almost graceful movement, he slid around Torjus and walked away. The rest of the gang followed. Torjus was as an island in the sea; not one member dared to touch him. Briler felt someone crash into his right, and he turned to see Yeltsin smile broadly at him before dashing after the rest of the gang.

"Torjus, what were you thinking?" Svojon rounded on his friend. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"I'm sorry," Torjus said, casting his eyes downward. "My temper got the best of me."

"I'll say," Svojon rolled his eyes. "Torjus, you know we need to be more careful than that!"

"Undue anger won't help our cause," Briler stated philosophically. "We need the people to be on our side."

"There's no reason for them to not join us," Torjus replied. "Come on. We should go find the others." The three students strode off, tailcoats flapping in the gusting wind. The officer watched them go with narrowed eyes but did nothing to impede their progress. Whatever they were doing, he decided, it surely didn't concern him.

Chapter 2

Patrick Shepard was waved through the security checkpoint by a balding man with an indecently long moustache.

"Welcome to Czechoslovakia, comrade!" the man had said, after stamping the papers. His nails were long and greasy, Patrick had noted. Nevertheless, Patrick had accepted his papers graciously. Now, looking around at the bleak city, he felt disappointed.

"I knew the news stations were lying about the glamour here," he muttered to no one in particular. "Not that my slum in New York was much better. In fact, it was worse. At least there's room here."

Patrick took a few steps away from the checkpoint and was immediately assailed by a swarm of grasping hands. He extricated himself delicately from the beggars, for he had nothing to give them. Despite the years of seeing similar conditions in New York, his heart still went out to the poor, the desperate.

Patrick walked along the cobbled path. Ramshackle houses lined the road. There were no trees or plants in sight. The whole image looked like a poor sixteenth century settlement in America. But this was the later twentieth century, for crying out loud! Surely it didn't take this long for people to evolve and develop?

A chill wind swept through Patrick's clothing and assailed his skin. Yet despite the poor quality of his threadbare clothes, he could only imagine how the beggars felt as they stumbled around. Tucking his arms in close, he proceeded to continue a little faster.

Rounding the corner, Patrick happened upon a large square. Tortuous roads wound off from it in every direction. All of the houses overlooking the open space had the same haggard look as the ones by the checkpoint. The only building that dared to deviate from this rule was the Café, which fit in about as well as an apple in a basket of oranges.

Four figures immediately caught his attention, for they stood out in stark contrast to the beggars. One of them was a police officer surveying the square with cold eyes. The other three appeared to be students, little more than teenagers. They were richly dressed but not lavishly so, and Patrick watched them dispense bread, coins, and what looked like flyers of some sort. The police officer curled his lips scornfully but said nothing.

A hand descended upon Patrick's shoulder, and he turned to see a girl standing there. Her clothing was also rich, like the students, but it seemed more sinister somehow. Her chocolate-colored hair streamed out behind her before nestling between her shoulder blades. She smiled wryly at Patrick. He supposed she was beautiful, but her charms were to no avail upon him.

"I don't believe I've seen you before," she said melodically. Her voice seemed to shimmer in the air. Patrick blinked.

"I just came here from America," he replied. The girl slung her arms around him, holding him close. Patrick doubted that this was normal Czech hospitality.

"America?" she whispered. Patrick noticed how her ruby lips parted as she named his country, and, despite himself, he felt slight discomfort at her closeness. There was just something about her that seemed wrong. "You'd have to be pretty desperate to come here. Perhaps I could help you? They call me Angel," she finished, inclining her head slightly. Patrick wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the glint of greed in her dark eyes.

"Thanks," Patrick said, putting on a false grin, "but I think I'll be alright." He moved his head slightly, seeking a way to escape this awkward situation. Angel kept her arms by his waist, moving one hand slightly. Patrick stepped away, unintentionally preventing it from entering his pocket.

"What's you name, cutie?" Angel asked, advancing a step.

"Er," Patrick looked around again. The three students were glancing in his direction. So was the police officer. Why didn't one of them just do something?

Angel wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Don't be shy. You can tell Angel." Oh geez! _What can I do? What do I do? _Patrick thought furiously. _Come on, Patrick, do something!_ Angel maneuvered him another step backwards. Patrick took a casual look over his shoulder, noticing how they were slowly but steadily nearing an alleyway.

"I'm Patrick," he said.

"Patrick. Mm. A nice name for a nice guy," Angel winked. Despite the chilly air, Patrick felt himself perspiring slightly. He didn't know why, but he knew that he did not want to be in that alleyway.

"Is there a problem here?" another voice asked. Angel recoiled as if she'd been stung. Patrick turned gratefully to his savior.

A Soviet officer stood authoritatively, hands clasped behind his back. A second officer stood on his right, watching Angel and Patrick with distrustful hazel eyes.

"No, no problem, Officer," Angel said, coining an American phrase. She winked at Patrick again. "I'll see you around, cutie." She sauntered off without a backward glance.

"Thanks," Patrick told the officer. The man smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. They were cold, steel-like eyes. One was an icy blue while the other was a fierce brown.

"You need to keep your guard up around people like her," the officer with the mismatched eyes said.

"Do you know her? Is she dangerous?"

"Perhaps, but the men in that alleyway certainly were," the officer responded. "I'm Captain Shanta, commander of the National Guard. This here is my right-hand man, Agent Eto." The captain pronounced his name like _Santa_, although Patrick was certain that the spelling was different.

"Charmed," Patrick said to Agent Eto, extending a hand. Eto stared coolly at it before shaking it once. "I'm Patrick Shepard," Patrick said, returning his attention to Captain Shanta. "Thanks for your help back there."

"You're an American, Patrick," Shanta kept the smile plastered on his face. "We can't afford to have anything happen to you unless, of course, you disturb the peace." The smile dropped off his face as he stepped closer and whispered, in a menacing tone, "and all Americans disturb the peace. I'll see you again, Patrick."

Eto and Shanta marched off, leaving Patrick shivering in the street. The police officer followed the pair without a backward glance. Patrick peered over to where the students had been, but they were no longer there. Apart from himself and groups of beggars trickling around, the square was deserted. Patrick moved into the nearest building, an old bookshop, more to get out of the cold than anything else. He barely noticed the girl standing by the window as he entered.

Patrick had come here because he believed life would be better here. Now, he wasn't sure what he was getting in to.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Carmella peeked through the glass windows of the dusty bookshop, her dazzling green eyes greedily drinking in the figures moving around inside, flitting from bookshelf to bookshelf with the grace of an Olympic skater.

Carmella had no interest in books, and neither did the man she was watching. She dismissed the owner from her mind, a frail old man with crooked spectacles and a long white beard. Also exiled from her thoughts was the American—although he was sexy—who had just entered the shop. No, her attention was fixated by the student perusing the shelves. Ney't'for Klausnitz.

Klausnitz was an orphan on both sides, yet he was what we might call a Renaissance child. Klausnitz taught himself how to read and write, he taught himself how to play Mozart, and he taught himself English and German. He also had a large heart and loved humanity. He may have been an orphan, but he adopted the world. Crimes against humanity enraged Klausnitz, putting a flush in his otherwise pale cheeks. His favorite topic of late, outside of the present year—1967—, was the reign of Nazi Germany. Affairs hadn't been much better in Czechoslovakia, abandoned by its Western allies, in the shadow of Nazi Germany than they were in the grip of the Soviet Union. To describe his physical appearance, Klausnitz was of average height and build, with messy black hair strewn about his head like a mop and eyes of a shade nearly rivaling Carmella's. He was thin and stood about 5'6. He would have been handsome if not for a severe case of acne.

A flash of sunlight hovered upon the silver cross he wore around his neck. By pressing her ear to the cold bars of the window, Carmella could just hear what was being said inside the toasty shop.

"Is that all, Klausnitz?" the shopkeeper asked in a tired but friendly tone. "That's quite a lot of books, lad."

"Oh, they're not for me, sir," Klausnitz replied politely. "Briler asked me to stop by and pick up a few."

"A few?" the shopkeeper chuckled to himself. "That boy sure goes through a massive amount of books. Why, at this rate, he'll have bought me out!"

"It's only because you sell your books so cheaply, sir," Klausnitz responded. Carmella loved hearing that polite tone in his voice. She wrapped herself in it; in the sound it made as it breezed through the oxygen and carbon in the air, and she felt it warm her and envelop her in its reverberating folds.

"That I do, lad, that I do," the man said. With a deft movement ill-fitting of his old age, he swept the pile of books neatly into a bag and passed them over to Klausnitz. Then he leaned over and whispered so that only Klausnitz—and, though he did not know it, Carmella—could hear. "It's a good thing them Soviets haven't bothered with me and my little shop. Otherwise I'd be selling all of their printed lies. Assuming that I was even still alive. God be with ye."

Klausnitz bowed to the man, forfeited a handful of cash, and strode for the door. Carmella jerked back as the bell tinkled and Klausnitz emerged into the frigid air. He looked left and right, smiled coyly at Carmella, moved off down the street, tailcoat flapping at his legs. Most people looked utterly ridiculous in yellow, but Klausnitz managed to model the coat perfectly. Carmella stared longingly after him, desiring nothing more than to be swept into his arms.

"Hello, pretty," a voice cackled behind her. Carmella jumped, even though she knew that voice.

"What is it, Yeltsin Bambam?" she asked, applying the last name that she knew he hated. Shethor's right-hand man gazed at her coolly. Nothing ever seemed to upset Yeltsin, despite the fact that he drew his knife faster than a locomotive. It lay in his palm now, point facing outward. Carmella couldn't be sure, but she had a feeling it was aimed at Klausnitz. She couldn't look, however, not without giving herself away. But she knew Yeltsin, and she knew he wouldn't harm Klausnitz.

Yeltsin Bambam, like Klausnitz, was orphaned on both sides. In many ways, Yeltsin was the foil to Klausnitz. Whereas Klausnitz rejoiced in the light of humanity, Yeltsin reveled in humanity's darker nature. Unlike Klausnitz, there was no case of acne to restrain Yeltsin's looks, and it was only out of fear of Shethor that Yeltsin dirtied himself. Really, he was quite a handsome boy. At nineteen years old, Yeltsin was just younger than Briler and Klausnitz, and Carmella believed him to be the youngest member of Sef Kocicka. Other than Angel, he was also its most fashionable member, choosing to dress in upper-class garments.

Yeltsin could also be seen as a foil to Briler. While Briler studied philosophy and believed passionately in a civilized approach, Yeltsin acted as a chaotic whirlwind, wrecking destruction upon human creations and spewing contempt for the species as a whole. Yeltsin was also one of Carmella's only friends, and, despite his bluster, he'd never killed another person. For all his talk and skill with a knife, Yeltsin lacked the true hatred required for murder.

He was also one of the only people who meant it when he called Carmella pretty. To most, Carmella was a wretched creature, not ugly but close to it. Her long, unkempt hair was the color of radiant sunshine, but the world saw it as the color of dried egg yolk. Her lips were large and pale, giving her mouth an ungainly appearance. More often than not, her tangled curtain of hair obscured most of her face, hiding her thin cheeks and cheekbones, hiding the hideous birthmark that throbbed and pulsated on her left cheek. She was thin but not beautifully so, more as if her stomach folded in around her waist.

Two people in all the world had seen past this skeletal frame: Yeltsin and Klausnitz. She longed for Klausnitz to love her, to feel for her, but he considered her—at best—a friend.

"Drat it, girl, you need to stop thinking about that boy!" Yeltsin hissed, motioning for her to follow. Carmella fought back a blush, hoping her thoughts weren't really that transparent.

"I know the way. I can get there myself!" she snapped at Yeltsin. He walked with her regardless, being wise enough not to press the issue. "Oh why can't he see how I feel?" she whined rhetorically.

"People are surprisingly ignorant when it comes to love," Yeltsin murmured, spinning his knife around idly.

"Well, you don't just tell a guy you like him!" Carmella couldn't believe this. When did Yeltsin get so stupid? Why did she have to explain this?

"Why not?" Yeltsin confronted her. The two were moving briskly now, anger lending speed to their steps. "Why play around with all the smoke and mirrors? He obviously doesn't know how you feel. It's only his ignorance that keeps me from stabbing him, in fact."

_And your conscience_ Carmella thought, but she didn't voice the idea.

"Why would you stab him otherwise?" she inquired.

"Because that would mean he'd be playing games with your heart, Carmella. And I do not approve when my friends are messed around with." Carmella felt a mixture of gratitude and amusement, but as life had taught her to, she kept her thoughts safely locked away. "You've changed the subject," Yeltsin noted.

"I have not."

"You have too."

"No, I haven't!"

"Yes, you have." Carmella glared angrily, but she couldn't scowl at her friend for long.

"So what does Angel want us for this time?" she asked. Yeltsin considered accusing her of switching topics again, but then he sighed and dropped the matter.

"Probably another raid," he said. A chill wind swept over them, and Carmella shivered. Yeltsin immediately removed his coat and moved over to Carmella.

"I don't want your coat!" she snapped at him, but she allowed him to help her into it. Yeltsin, bemused, said nothing. They walked in silence for a time. Carmella knew the entrances to the underground as well as Yeltsin, but both figures walked deliberately past two of them before, several minutes later, descending into a third.

Chapter 4

The impression most societies have is that, in times of poverty, only the wealthy, upper-class thrives. This is not quite the truth. While those with money are usually better off than those without, there are far more than two classes in any one society. And in the society controlled like a puppet by the Soviet Union, we have already seen six separate classes: the students, the gang members, the officers, the foreigner, the beggars, and Carmella, who doesn't really fit into any of these classes. There are more to introduce yet, however, and so we temporarily leave Yeltsin and Carmella and return to the square. This time, we take a separate road, one yet untaken by anyone we've seen.

It is along this mysterious road that a child came skipping down, having observed all of the interesting events in the square. No one notices a child, after all. Abandoned children were not that common a scene, for the People's Republic—or, to address them honestly, the USSR—went to great lengths to protect and raise children. This particular boy, however, had rejected any attempts to recruit him. He seemed to cope well with living on the streets, although the only reasons we list him separately from the beggars are that A: he's a child and B: he's poor but not begging.

This child was eight or nine years old but had the brain of a young adult. His dirty hair was matted to his face, and it was impossible to tell what color it was. His face was smudged and dirty with little white patches of skin erupting through the grime every here and there. His lips, chalky and cracked, were raised at the corners, despite the fact that the child was not happy. When he smiled, three holes could be seen in his mouth. Jacopo doesn't smile.

His body was thin and just as grimy as his face. His clothing was tattered and torn, and the torso and legs beneath the shredded cover sprouted several bruises. His right leg was longer than his left, making his skipping look off-balance. Where childish innocence should have dwelled in his eyes, righteous passion blazed. In his eyes and eyes alone, Jacopo resembled Torjus.

Jacopo continued skipping and humming as he passed an oddity; a large, purple tent sent up alongside the road. Yellow streaks decorated its sides like a child's scribble. Jacopo had seen this tent before. It belonged to the fortune-teller, the crazy witch who appeared and disappeared with the wind. But no one pays attention to what a child notices.

It was an utter shock when a voice rasped out from the tent.

"Come here my dear," the voice said. Jacopo stopped mid-skip, looking around. The road was deserted, plucked bare by the freezing winds. It was only September, and the temperature was already dropping. It hadn't been higher than fifty degrees Fahrenheit all week.

The tent _did _look warmer than the outside world, so Jacopo entered. There was little lighting inside, but the streets outside were usually dim anyway. The sun seldom shone nowadays. Jacopo stopped, face tilted towards the fortune-teller.

"I haven't any money to pay for a reading," the child said loudly, raising his voice as most children do when they want to be heard. The woman dismissed this with a wave of a withered hand.

"My dear, Anne Bonnie D'rich didn't call you in here for a reading," the fortune-teller said, referring to herself in the third person. Jacopo said nothing. He was used to adults acting strangely, and the gargantuan earrings hanging from Anne's ears marked her as strange indeed. "Interesting things are coming to this town," the woman continued. "Anne likes to be where the action is. The stars have whispered their secrets to me like a broken man huddled in a companion's arms."

Jacopo made no comment on the unusual simile, nor the fact that it was daylight outside. He shifted back and forth.

"You will get yourself involved in whatever happens, won't you," Anne stated. "I can see that too. You're young, but you have the spirit of one much older. You thirst for an opportunity for respect; a chance to distance yourself from other children. Yes, I see all of that and more. Events are taking shape, manifesting in the distance. A storm is coming, and you have no umbrella."

Jacopo ran out of the tent, away from the crazy lady and her peculiar analogies.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 5

Judith Lee was not one bit amused. Extricating herself from the checkpoint, she spun deftly on high-heeled shoes to stick her tongue out at the customs officer.

"Brute of a man," she muttered to herself. Withdrawing a hand mirror from her oversized bag, she proceeded to examine herself. "Albert," she began, applying rose-red lipstick to herself, "do you still have the camera?"

Her cameraman, by way of answer, lifted the large black bag. Judith nodded and returned her focus to the mirror. The American news reporter popped her lips once, and then returned the lipstick and mirror to her bag, satisfied.

"There should be quite the story here," she told both Albert and her sister, a young girl named Rose. "We'll see how these Commies live—and whether or not it's truly better than American living. I, for one, doubt it."

She marched forward. Albert and Rose trailed along behind her, exchanging doubtful glances. Then Rose whispered something in Albert's ear; the burly man nodded, and Rose dashed off down a side street. Judith continued her monologue, oblivious to the scene behind her.

"…and of course, the story will just have to make me rich and famous! I mean, the millennia is almost over, and I'll be damned if I'm leaving it poor and decrepit! You! Poor person!" she announced suddenly, slipping into an authoritative tone utilized only by reporters. "Albert, get the camera," she muttered. Then she returned her gaze to the group of beggars before her.

"Tell us, how is life in the _esteemed_ Soviet Union?" Judith shot off at the group. One beggar, a large female, turned with fire in her expression.

"You think you can just flounce in here and use us for your own personal gain? Go and make some showing of us to line your pockets with cash while we scrape in the dirt?"

"Well, really, I—," Judith stammered, evidently not expecting the vicious response.

"It ain't happening, newscaster! Go leech your story from somewhere else!" The group of beggars began to move off. The large woman turned back, locking eyes with Judith. "Hey newscaster! Got a dollar?"

Judith lowered her eyes, staring down at the cracked stone. The woman snorted.

"I didn't think so." She turned and marched off, following the rest of the beggars. Judith stared after her, an expression of hurt bewilderment etched on her face.

Getting a story might prove more difficult than she had anticipated.

Section II: Sef Kocicka

Underground areas are almost always reserved for all sorts of low-lives and scumbags, and the underground of Czechoslovakia was no exception. Such areas were once braved by torches and candles, but darkness always extinguishes the light down here. The motives of explorers, usually not so honest, flee with the light, and these men run from the murky tunnels. None have continued and found that the levels grew darker still, all leading to the pit of darkness, the yawning abyss colored by the night.

Men who are not men prowl these depths. Down here, people go missing and are never again seen. Phantoms ghost through the air, and the indifferent rock is dark and cold. The darkness here loathes the society above, loathes the light, and seeks to bring it all crashing down. Here there is no logic, no philosophy, no science, no education, no thought, no law, no order, no progress. There is only darkness, both as a physical presence and an evil inside the hearts of the men who live here. This is the headquarters of Sef Kocicka.

In a dimly lit chamber, deep within the bowels of the underground, the members of Sef Kocicka organized.

Calling Boris short was technically inaccurate. The man was about 5'7 with a rotund belly, despite the fact that he seldom ate. It was whispered that Boris was inflicted with a disease to cause his plumpness. Above his stomach, an observer would notice beady little eyes, birdlike in the way they would fixate upon an object for a moment before swiveling away. One lazy eyelid dropped over one eye.

Shethor and Angel stood apart from the others, whispering in frenzied conversation. Shethor was still seething about his earlier encounter with the students, despite the fact that he had gotten in the last word. Shethor's brain was hell-bent on the idea of revenge, and, like most dwellers of the night, Shethor had a long memory. Shethor's cheeks never flushed, not even when he was angry. In fact, the only way to tell that Shethor was angry was by his voice, which shook, trembled, and jumped octaves whenever he was furious. More than one man had laughed at that voice. More than one man was dead.

Carmella and Yeltsin dashed into the room, and all eyes turned to them.

"Excellent," Shethor hissed, struggling to control his voice. "Everyone's here." His voice jumped up on the word 'here,' but not one person made a sound.

"Those students 'ave some nerve," Boris jeered. "They've been roaming our streets freely for some time now, 'anding out their disgusting little leaflets." He tossed one of the leaflets in question into the air; it defied gravity for all of six seconds before settling on the ground like an autumn leaf.

"Can you even read what's on that little scrap, Boris?" one of the members jeered.

"Of course I can!" Boris shot back, glaring venomously. Angel sighed dramatically, looking all the world like a disgruntled mother.

"Let's not squabble, dears," she said. "We have more important matters to discuss. Why, just after your little…er…performance in the square, I cornered this gorgeous American. Unfortunately, Shanta saved the man—but hey, I know we'll see him around. But he's not the only fresh meat in town. Why, I noticed another trio of foreigners, reporters from the look of 'em and their fancy camera."

"There'll be rich pickings soon, gents," Shethor cackled.

"Just that camera alone will fetch quite the price," Boris mused. The air in the room grew heavy with anticipation as the gang pictured spoils rolling in. Greed was etched onto the expressions of everyone in the room.

"Alright. First, we'll stake out the area. Find out where these newcomers are holing up." Shethor mused. He was pacing, as he often did when thinking. His slimy little brain churned as a plan slowly popped into existence. "We'll need to know everything about their foxholes before moving in. The last thing we need is that fool Shanta catching wind of this. Also," he added, stopping his movements and staring out at the gang. The torches flickered, causing shadows to dance about the floor. "If anyone finds any of those bloody schoolboys alone, bring 'em to me, got it?"

Heads nodded and people began vanishing into the darkness. Not a footstep could be heard, despite the uneven stone flooring. Angel latched onto Carmella before she could disappear and smacked her hard.

"You stupid lovesick brat!" Angel hissed into her ear. "Get your mind away from that boy. He'll die, him and all the others will die in their foolish quest, and I don't need you dying with them!" Angel melted away, leaving Carmella covering her face, hiding both the angry red mark and the tears that dripped from the recesses of her eyes, forming sparkling diamonds on her cheeks. Yeltsin patted her shoulder awkwardly, and then allowed the darkness to claim him, vanishing with the others. Carmella was alone.

The torches spat fire, briefly illuminating the room, before dying out, leaving Carmella in pitch-black. She sank down to her knees, still hiding her face from the world, from the darkness that sought to grasp it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 6

Aravind Lubomir reclined in his seat, content with the shimmering quality around his vision. He let out a languid sigh, casting his blue eyes around the Café. He hadn't told his fellow students about his addiction, although he suspected that all of them knew. Certainly Torjus and Briler did. Why else would the former treat him with such contempt? Aravind didn't understand it.

Aravind had been a cautious man before his addiction. Rather than muting his caution and heightening his recklessness, as drugs often do, Aravind's caution had increased. He was now a man who took good care not to believe in anything, not in promises, not in emotions, not in people, not in himself, not even in the comforts of religion. He knew where to find the best drinks at which cafes, the best billiard tables, the best-looking women (not that he cared), the best cakes, the best appetizers, the best chicken, the best stews, the best steaks, and the best wines. Aravind had once been a handsome man, but the drugs had not been kind to his appearance. He was disheveled, hideous, a bitter man who thrived on irony and skepticism.

And yet, despite his iron-will not to believe in anything, one force, one unstoppable force, punched through the iron curtain in his mind. One force both rammed down the walls Aravind kept up and slunk through them with the graceful silence of a cat. Aravind followed, without knowing it, one of the oldest laws governing the universe: We are attracted to what we lack. Pessimists and optimists generally attract each other without knowing it. Land animals gaze at the sky with wistful eyes, and sea creatures wish on the night stars for land. Aravind was no exception. His fascination, his only belief, resided in Torjus. Aravind himself did not know the depth of this connection, for he instinctively admired his opposite. He orbited Torjus as a satellite; he could only live by leaning on Torjus, the sunlight to Aravind's blind eyes. Aravind found his only happiness here, in the café with Torjus, even though Torjus seemed to despise him for his disbelief, his addiction.

At another table in the café, Illy Svojon, Wilhelm Johan, and Horatio Crawford crowded around, talking avidly with each other. There were no females in the café; Maria Kateel and Belle waited patiently for their loves to return.

Wilhelm was the oldest of all the students. Wilhelm was a cheery, bright lad, but fate seemed hell-bent on ruining him. His specialty was not to succeed at anything. If he was fishing (which was rare in the frozen waters), he would invariably fall in the water. If he was chopping wood, it was a guarantee that he would nick himself. The only aspect in which failure was a stranger was in the revolution, and so Wilhelm threw himself into it with everything he had. Rather than souring his personality, constant failure had turned him jovial. He took heart in his bad luck and smiled at the taunts of fate. He was relatively poor, like his fellow schoolboys, but his fund of good humor spilled over at least ten zeroes. Wilhelm had no home, the ramshackle hut having burned down four months previous, and he often stayed with Belle. Wilhelm was a resourceful man, always finding opportunities to overcome the endless deployment of obstacles facing him. Despite his constant hardships, Wilhelm was the only religious student, and he never blamed his Lord for anything that befell him.

Belle was a younger student, but her dreams were grand. She aspired to be a doctor, and threw herself into her work, modeling after Briler whenever possible. She was lively and likable—when not examining her body parts in a mirror, for Belle was convinced that she was chronically ill. She would take her pulse in stormy weather; she would constantly stick a thermometer in her mouth as a man would a cigarette; she would spend at least forty minutes examining every inch of her body to check for spots. Other than that, Belle was friendly, modest, and likable.

Horatio Crawford had been raised in England, far away from beaten-down Czechoslovakia. However, he found himself despising the posh, rich life that he lived there. He snuck away from home and enlisted in the army, where he was sent to serve as a peacekeeper in Germany. In 1959, he met Wilhelm, and the two became fast friends. Once in Czechoslovakia, the two bonded with the other students. Horatio became well-liked by all of them. He was witty and always loved a laugh. Where Torjus was the leader and Briler, the guide, Horatio was the center. Torjus and Briler gave out light; Horatio gave out heat. Like a center, Horatio was round and radiant, and his crippled leg in no way hampered his sparkling personality.

Torjus and Briler entered the café, and all conversation ceased. Every eye turned to Torjus; he returned every gaze except Aravind's. A full day had passed since the events in the square, yet the scene looked exactly the same; the only change was the absence of the gang.

"We have many supporters," Torjus opened. There were cheers and whistles from the students. Torjus waited until the sounds had abated. "But the people as a whole are not ready to join us, to fight with us. We need a sign."

"Perhaps we should mount one in the square. Revolution: Right," Horatio laughed, and the others laughed with him. Only Torjus, Briler, and Aravind remained silent.

"Is their oppression, their starvation, not motive enough?" Illy burst out.

"Fear is a powerful motivator, seeking solely to counter us," Briler replied, once again displaying his otherworldly tendency to sprout a one-line sentence that made his opposition look foolish.

"We need a way to ignite the tension in the air," Torjus continued, filling the silence with his powerful, heavenly voice. Aravind paused, in his stupor, to listen to the waves of energy crashing against his eardrums. Only Torjus could speak like that; only Torjus inspired Aravind's skeptic heart.

"Isn't Markov coming here in thirty days?" Wilhelm ventured. "Perhaps his demonstrations could provide the spark we seek."

Before Torjus could respond, the doors flew open, and Klausnitz came dashing in, red-faced. Or rather, more red-faced than was normal.

"Sorry…I'm…late," he panted, bending over to catch his breath. Then he straightened up with a look of horror. "Your books, Benjamin! I forgot them!" He groaned, subsiding into the nearest chair. Briler laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, 'Ney," he said, using the nickname Klausnitz's friends could use. "I'll just drop by your place later today." Klausnitz nodded, and Briler withdrew, moving back to Torjus. Torjus, his movement hidden by the students' tailcoats, reached out and tapped Briler on the arm, knowing his oldest friend would understand. Then Torjus stepped forward, once again becoming the center of attention.

"My friends," Torjus began. He glanced directly at every single person in the room, even sparing a disdainful look at Aravind. "I believe Wilhelm is correct. This means that we have thirty days to rally students from around the city. We have thirty days to talk with the other groups of revolutionaries, our companions, our freedom-fighters, our angels heralding the dawn. We will have to separate, to go with haste across the city to our brothers. Briler has promised me that he would take the Ruzyne International Airport, and Svojon has guaranteed the University. There are a myriad of other cafés and other meeting spots that need attending. Wilhelm, Horatio, and Klausnitz, I expect the three of you to determine between yourselves who goes where."

"What about Belle and Maria, Torjus?" Horatio asked. "Surely they can help!"

"They are more than welcome to aid us," Torjus responded with all the grace of a leader. Aravind, the substance slowing his reflexes and reactions, suddenly became aware of who was getting the short end of the stick.

"What about me, Torjus?" he asked in a voice full of injured pride. The other students shifted uncomfortably and began drifting out of the café, leaving Torjus to glare icily at Aravind. _How could such blazing fire transform into that bitter ice so quickly?_ Aravind reflected.

"You," Torjus stated coldly, the ice in his eyes matched only by the ice in his tone. "What could you possibly do, skeptic? Why would you rally students for a cause you don't believe in? You believe in nothing but your next dosage, Aravind." Torjus turned sharply. Briler, suddenly extremely interested in polishing his glasses, did not look up.

"I believe in you," Aravind said simply. His words stopped Torjus, who was nearly out the door. The angelic figure turned slowly, deliberately, the blazing ice in his eyes freezing the drug in Aravind's veins. "Give me a chance," Aravind pleaded. His mind was clear, much clearer than it had ever been. Torjus looked into the addict's eyes and saw their focus, the absence of the drug, and this rarity decided him.

"Alright, Aravind," Torjus replied. His voice was not warm, but the piercing ice had evaporated from his tone. "I consent to trying to you out. You will go to—Briler, where's a near area where he can be heard without fear of arrest?"

Horatio had stopped to talk to Klausnitz by the exit. The former looked up, having heard Torjus's question.

"That other café, the People's Café, would be an ideal spot," Horatio exclaimed, spitting out the word peoples. As we have seen, irony resides heavily in the naming of objects in the USSR's Czechoslovakia. Torjus nodded his assent.

"Then that is where you will go, Aravind." Hope flooded into the man's eyes. Here, at last, was a chance for him to prove himself; a chance to do something great for Torjus! Aravind ran out of the Café Dubcek, practically bowling over Klausnitz and Horatio, both of who followed Aravind out. Alone but for Briler, Torjus sank into one of the many chairs strewn about the café. Benjamin sat next to him, in silence. The unspoken words between the two men made little sense to any observer, but to the two student friends and revolutionaries, the silent void was full of words. Finally, Torjus spoke.

"Do you think he'll succeed?"

"I think it was good of you to give him an opportunity." Torjus shook his head.

"I shouldn't have. We've probably just lost any support from that section of town. He's just going to go there and get high!"

"We all have our inner demons."

"Perhaps, Benjamin, but his are revealed for the world to see!"

"You'll create a world where those demons don't exist, where no demons exist. There will be no Satan; there will be no Michael. Progress will continue, Truth will continue, Justice, with his flaming sword and Liberty with her blazing torch, will continue, and you will lead them all, Torjus, with us by your side."

"You know as well as I the conditions reining in Czechoslovakia," Torjus responded. "We are but students and interns, and we get wages that the working class only dreams of! And the aristocrats, with their fancy mansions and automotives, deign to spare not even the smallest drop of pity for the poor! At least Markov will be here soon."

"Ah, yes," Briler said. "Markov. I doubt that he'll come in a month's time."

"And why is that?"

"Because of the diplomatic talks. The Soviets are coming in to speak with Rijon, and that will likely delay Markov."

"The people need their sign!" Torjus hissed. "I know the sign is that man!" Briler smiled.

"You may be right, Torjus. Have patience. The more time we have to rally supporters, the better." Torjus stood, tapping his friend on the shoulder by way of thanks, and exited the café. Briler glanced out into the square, shaking his head sadly at the scene, and followed.

Chapter 7

Time is an oddity. To the rich, time is an elusive mystery, an unstoppable force forever out of grasp. The hours in the longest day are too short, the years in their lives approaching a rapid end. To the poor, the lives of the rich cannot end fast enough. The hours in the shortest day are too long. The poor? What is that to the rich? The rich notice not the poor, see not the beggar on the street corner, hear not his desperate cries, and gaze at not his pitiful, wretched condition. To the students, time is a tool, a device to be handled carefully like a pot of hot water, that, when unleashed, would tip the pot—so to speak—and release the simmering frustrations and mistreatments of the people. Life was a race against time, plan revolving around plan like the hands of a clock. Critical factors all came down to time, to how it was spent, how it was used. To the police and dregs of society, time is invisible, a current with some meaning, yet no truly tangled in their own destinies. The police see time day-to-day, week-to-week, month-to-month. Ideas come and go, spirits change with the tides and progress with the winds, but order remains, untouched by time. The police notice time only when the pot of water tips, spilling over into society, creating a scalding wave to crash against the unshakeable foundation of order. The dregs and criminals that embody and personify the darkness care nothing for time. It exists, it operates, it brings them the shroud of darkness as a shield and cover for misdeeds, but criminals live in the moment or the immediate future.

The different outlooks on time are many, but regardless, it passes, and Briler's prediction proved to be accurate. Just three days after the meeting at Café Dubcek, Agent Shanta and Agent Eto had marched into the center of town and proclaimed the impending arrival of Soviet officials to meet with Governor Rijon. Torjus had ground his perfect teeth at the news, anger etched into the lines of his body, for every delay meant another day of suffering.

"Maybe these talks will actually improve something," Svojon had suggested.

"They won't," Horatio replied adamantly. "Rijon will let them walk all over him." All of the students had been present for the officer's announcement. Even Aravind, although one wondered how much he really heard, for while his physical body stood with his companions, his mind and spirit were elsewhere, carried away. Horatio and Wilhelm had exchanged glances, hoping that Aravind would be normal for his rally at the People's Café.

Patrick, having secured an apartment to reside in, had also been present at the announcement. It was there that he met Judith Lee and her ever-present cameraman, Albert. It was his relief at hearing another person speak English that drew him to her. Patrick spoke Czech, but he was far from fluent, and he had a nagging suspicion that the last person he'd spoke to, instead of asking for directions, had called him a rooster and then invited him out. He kept mentally running through the embarrassing scene, ultimately giving up on deciphering the mangled Czech.

"Are you American too?" he'd asked, approaching Judith. The newscaster had flipped out.

"Another American! Albert, get the camera rolling! What's your name, citizen? What are you doing in Czechoslovakia? Are you a spy for our government? Are you undercover? No sane person would want to vacation here. Oh, you must tell me everything! Wait," she straightened, suddenly glaring at him. "You're not a Commie, are you?"

Bombarded by the questions like the Battle of the Marne, Patrick could only blink stupidly. "I…no, er…I…huh?" Judith, undergoing another transformation, abruptly regained control of herself.

"I'm sorry, sir. I just got a little excited. You're the first American I've met here other than Albert and my sister, Rose," she gestured at each name without looking, thus not noticing Rose's absence.

"Rose…?"

"Yes, my younger sister. Pretty little thing. Anyway, I'll tell you what. I'm going to try and get a scoop from that officer up there. Swing by my apartment later. I'd like to get your story too." Fumbling in her bag, she eventually produced a scrap of paper with an address scrawled across it. "We're bedding here. Drop by sometime in the evening." With that she vanished, possessing the uncanny ability all reporters had of disappearing and reappearing wherever interesting events were transpiring. Patrick, bewildered by the turn of events, blinked again before pocketing the scrap.

All of this had been four days ago. All in all, one week had passed since the arrival of Patrick Shepard, Judith Lee, Rose Lee, and Albert. September had frozen into early October, and the gray clouds covering the sky continued to drape across the skyline. The bitter cold of winter would doubtless lower the city's population. Dead would be lying across the pavement and snow, frozen with the cold, pockets picked clean by Sef Kocicka. The chill might stifle the flames of the revolution, but it cannot exterminate the fire. The ashes would reignite; the flames rekindle. The pressure was mounting, the tension building, the suffering slowly but steadily approaching a climax. This whirlwind of negative energy would expand out of the glass bottle that contained it and erupt all at once in a fiery blaze. Nobody trusted Governor Rijon; everybody knew exactly how those peace talks would go. The Soviets would arrive tomorrow, speak with Rijon for a few hours, days perhaps, and then depart. The situation would remain unchanged. If a change were to occur, the people would have to take their fate into their own hands and shape their own destiny.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 8

To drop by the home of Ney't'for Klausnitz meant to drop by the home of Horatio Crawford, for the two men roomed together in an apartment. Yet as he steadily approached their building, Briler's thoughts were on Prague. How could such a glorious city, with such a rich history, fall to such a state? History has proven that even the best can be brought down. The mighty Romans had split and collapsed in 476, the surviving Byzantines losing their magnificent empire in the thirteenth century, even though the official destruction was 1453. Their vanquishers, the powerful Ottoman Empire, failed to keep up with European industrialization and paid the price after the first global conflict, along with the strong state of Germany. Grand France had fallen victim to itself, seized and wracked by civil strife and conflict much like that in Czechoslovakia. The world's largest land empire, the Mongol Empire, created by a horde of barbarians who drank curled milk, evaporated with the morning dew, and even magnificent England, the strongest empire, had been brought low by a mere colony all the way across the vast ocean. History teaches us that everything falls; Briler wondered if that maxim would apply to the Soviet Union.

Prague had enjoyed a role on the world stage throughout history. Egypt may have been the forefront diamond in the crown of any empire, but Prague enjoyed its position as a shimmering ruby. Throughout the Gothic and Renaissance eras, Prague flourished along with human society, serving as a political, cultural, and economic center of Europe. It also enjoyed the status as capital of the Holy Roman Empire. Charles IV had restored Prague to its grandeur in the fourteenth century, building the New Town, the Charles Bridge, the Charles University (the man certainly was vain!), and the Saint Vitus Cathedral. As civilizations continued the cycle of rising and falling, Prague defied that cycle, remaining an important city in the Austrian-Hungarian Empire and the Hapsburg Monarchy, finally gaining its freedom with the end of the Great War and the fall of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. Only, it must be noted, to lose it to Nazi Germany and later the Soviet Union.

Musing on Prague's glamorous history and downfall, Briler withdrew from his surroundings. Withdrawing from the outside world was the only way Briler was able to walk around outside without giving away the clothes he wore. He was a philosopher, but he was a humanitarian, giving aid to those in need. Absently kicking a stone into the Vltava River, Briler continued musing, thoughts slowly shifting from Prague to the situation in the entire Czech state to Torjus Drumen.

Torjus Drumen, leader of the revolution—no matter how many separate groups there were, Briler could only ever consider Torjus as the leader—and Briler's longest friend. The two men were closer than brothers, or at least, they had been, once upon a time. Others saw Torjus as a being of light, of flame, of the personified sufferings of the unjustly treated. Some, like Aravind, even viewed him as a god. Briler saw Torjus in many moods, many lights, many shades, many times, yet saw him only as a friend, albeit a reserved one since the forming of the group. Only once had Torjus, after assuming the mantle as Caesar did for Rome, confided his deepest feelings to Briler.

"_They all view me as this…this god, this divine entity! But I'm not, Benjamin! I make mistakes like any other man! I'm not flawless, I'm not perfect! It's so difficult when perfection is demanded, no, expected of me, of everything I do!" _And Briler had set his hand on his friend's shoulder, knowing that Torjus conveyed more in gestures than in words, and replied with all the fluidity of a philosopher:

"_Then be not their god, Torjus, but be their human."_

A voice cut through the air, penetrating his reverie.

"Benjamin! Come to visit your old mate, have you?" Startled, Briler glanced up, into the smiling eyes of Horatio. The latter slapped an arm around Briler and steered him effortlessly towards the apartment. Were not the fact that Horatio was friendly, Briler would feel like a mouse caught by a cat. "You'll stay for a drink, at least!"

"I don't drink."

"Ha ha ha! You amuse me so, my friend! You would not do me this disservice of making me drink alone?"

"Surely Klausnitz would be happy to join you."

"Bah! Klausnitz loves the world but sees little of it! He speaks against crimes done to and by humanity, but he's too conflicted to truly stand on one side or the other. He has too much loyalty to too many people. You know how his parents died?"

"Hmm. I'm not that close to the man, actually."

"It's a good thing I'm so irresistible then!" Horatio teased, gently prodding Briler. "They were both killed in the states. Apparently, the people there don't like Communists very much. But the poor man struggles inside, seeing on one hand the barbarities committed to the people, seeing on the other the broken bodies of his parents. You've noticed, I know, how he seldom attends the meetings. Alas! Wine and women, two luxuries we should all enjoy!" That was talking with Horatio for you; the man never stayed on a dark subject for very long. Or perhaps his naturally radiant aura simply chased away the darkness, leaving only light and warmth behind.

"You'd certainly know all about those two luxuries," Briler chided, as Horatio swept him into the apartment. The porter tipped his hat courteously as the two students went by. Horatio returned the gesture; Briler, not wearing a hat, simply nodded. "You've had how many mistresses—four, now?"

"Five, old chap, although I do believe we're defining that term differently."

"What, five?"

"Mistresses. I'm just a ladies' man, Briler. One should enjoy live and living! We only get one life, one shot, no matter what some Buddhist monk says in a far-off temple."

"People are entitled to difference in opinion." Horatio, bowing Briler through the entryway, smiled.

"Oh, don't be my philosopher, Benjamin, be my companion! Wine?" Briler smiled in spite of himself. Horatio's manner was so easy-going, and his determination was amusing. Klausnitz looked up from where he sat, greeting Horatio and Briler.

"Your books are here, Briler," Klausnitz said, gesturing to a fair stack on the table. He stood to leave.

"Oh, but you must join us!" Horatio insisted, somehow managing to grab Klausnitz and retain his hold on Briler. "Benjamin here was just going to join me in a drink—,"

"I was not."

"—and you're going to participate as well! I shan't take no for an answer!" Horatio had to release his friends in order to fetch and pour the wine.

"I knew you liked making merry, Horatio, but I hardly had you down as a drinker," Briler teased, knowing full well that Horatio never got drunk.

"And why shouldn't he drink?" Klausnitz exclaimed, accepting a glass from Horatio. "A dollop of wine has never hurt anyone! Why should we not drink amongst friends? The world is a cruel place at the present, my friends—how privileged I feel to call you that!—devoid of the subtler joys of life. Men and women do not hold hands unless they're riding by in carriages rich enough to feed the city for weeks on end, and laughter is not heard unless it issues from the gurgling rasps of aristocratic fops or the drunken ramblings of those sly enough to obtain alcohol! How many of these automobiles do you see in the city? I'll tell you, about as many suns as are in the sky, and that one belongs solely to the Soviets stationed here. Bah! Forget the outside world which bears its hooks into us all, plunging them into our chests that we may die from the throbbing passion! Forget the outside world and make merry here! We celebrate life; is that not worth a toast? Should we be so cruel as to deny Nature, Fate, and Destiny, those three meddlesome sisters? Were Wilhelm here, he would likely throw in God as well, so why not? Did the citizens of Rome balk at the opportunity to drink when Caesar presided, when Nero and Augustus ruled? Bread and circuses, you know this, Briler! In that invasion by the Delaware in America, the Hessians were content to make merry and drink, and what do think the Americans did the dawn after? Under Napoleon, the French war machine slugged towards Russia, yet the people of Paris visited taverns and inns! Hitler reared his head in Germany, sending his arms out to various houses scattered about, detaining—at best—the individuals there, and the people shut their windows to such screams and let the wine flow!

"There were plenty of people who did nothing of the sort," Briler interjected, but Klausnitz merely raised his voice and continued his monologue.

"So then why should we, in a city no less grand than Paris and a time no less dark than Germany's, scoff at those who indulge in the fruit of life? If you will toast not to life, toast then to hope! Toast to the future we will usher in, toast to the future of the people, for the people, by the people! Toast to friendship, to the Fates that smile upon you and allow such lights to brighten your life!"

Behind Klausnitz, Horatio was refilling his own glass, having emptied both his and Klausnitz's, the latter noticing nothing, so engaged as he was. Klausnitz was wrapping up his speech.

"So why, Briler, will you not toast when the beauty still living in the world urges you to do so?" Benjamin Briler, light flashing from his spectacles, rose from where Horatio had forced him down, his piercing blue eyes boring into Klausnitz's green orbs.

"For the beauty that is dead," he replied coldly, once again flouting his ability to completely destroy an opponent with a single sentence. Klausnitz, suddenly self-conscious, sank weakly into his seat. "Thank you for the books," Briler continued, his tone warming slightly. He swept up the stack with one deft motion, tapped Klausnitz on the shoulder to let him know that he was forgiven, exchanged a farewell with Horatio, and departed. Klausnitz sighed, running his hands through his hair. Then he glanced over at Horatio, who was struggling to keep from laughing.

"Your plan failed," Klausnitz told him, sliding the hidden piece of paper across the table.

"We'll get him to drink sometime," Horatio shrugged, unbothered by Briler's victory. Klausnitz rolled his eyes and smiled at his friend. Outside, the world may be stormy, but in here, things were calm. Things were right.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 9

**_Karel Hynek Mácha: Máj (May)_**  
><em>Beginning verses, translation by Edith Pargeter<em>

_Byl pozdní večer - první máj -  
>večerní máj - byl lásky čas.<br>Hrdliččin zval ku lásce hlas,  
>kde borový zaváněl háj.<br>O lásce šeptal tichý mech;  
>květoucí strom lhal lásky žel,<br>svou lásku slavík růži pěl,  
>růžinu jevil vonný vzdech.<br>Jezero hladké v křovích stinných  
>zvučelo temně tajný bol,<br>břeh objímal je kol a kol;  
>a slunce jasná světů jiných<br>bloudila blankytnými pásky,  
>planoucí tam co slzy lásky.<em>

_Late evening, on the first of May -  
>The twilit May - the time of love.<br>Meltingly called the turtle-dove,  
>Where rich and sweet pinewoods lay.<br>Whispered of love the mosses trail,  
>The flowering tree as sweetly lied,<br>The rose's fragrant sigh replied  
>To love-songs of the nightingale.<br>In shadowy woods the burnished lake  
>Darkly complained a secret pain,<br>By circling shores embraced again;  
>And heaven's clear sun leaned down to take<br>A road astray in azure deeps,  
>Like burning tears the lover weeps.<em>

Had Carmella been eighteen twenty years ago, or any age twenty years ago for that matter, she wouldn't have known how to read. But one of the Soviet Union's better policies was the advancement of women's rights. On the other hand, education was expensive, and money was in short supply in the land. Flies and cold, those were the only things in abundance. Carmella was fortunate enough to read; she had no further education. Carmella's soft lips spoke the words silently to herself while her heart, stupid thing, continued to yearn.

Two days had passed since Briler's visit to Horatio's humble abode. The Soviets were concluding their negotiations with Rijon. Carmella hadn't needed to eavesdrop to know the conclusion, but she did it anyway, concealing her intent behind the book displayed in her lap. Carmella was adept at hearing conversations behind walls and Rijon, in his typical stupidity, had arranged to meet the Soviets in a public building. Carmella leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, ears straining to pick up the conversation occurring on the other side.

Besides, looking at the disheveled hall wasn't much better. She didn't want to see the paint peeling from the walls, the cracked tiles lining the floor, the decrepit marble columns older than Greece, the slanted rays of October sunlight that penetrated the veil of dust coating the windows, the sleek, fancy cars parked in a vague formation around the building, or even the fancy words that filled the otherwise blank pages, once white as snow. There was only one thing, one face, she wanted to see, and she could only see it when her eyes closed and her faultless memory recalled it in detail.

Rijon's voice, weak and indecisive, did not break her from her thoughts, but the Soviet officer's voice did. It was so much stronger than Rijon's squeaky tone.

"So, Governor, you will put the new policies into effect? We'd hate to believe that our time here was wasted."

"New…ah, yes, Officer Karov, I will oversee it personally." Carmella suppressed a snort.

"Good. Now, Governor, I've heard rumors that the people here are restless. These rumors wouldn't have any sustenance, would they?" Carmella pictured the man stepping closer to Rijon as he voiced the threat.

"Ah…no, Officer, I can't say I've noticed anything."

"That doesn't surprise me," Officer Karov replied dryly. "Have you at least noted the Americans that entered the country? Shanta mentioned them to you, I know."

"Er…he did, yes."

"That wasn't my question, Governor."

"Do you want me to have them watched?"

"Shanta _is _so looking forward to apprehending them. Particularly this male named Patrick Shepard." That name wasn't familiar to Carmella, although she did recall Angel mentioning an American rescued by Shanta. It must have been him. "Catching Americans is difficult," Karov admitted. "On one hand, they're evil capitalist scum who exploit the working class for their own gain. The poor get poorer and the rich get richer. On the other hand, we don't want to instigate the much-needed war against those tyrants."

Rijon said nothing to any of this. Carmella wondered how much he even understood.

"Dealing with you is so much nicer than dealing with Dubcek," Karov continued. Carmella heard a chair scrape against the floor and pictured one of the Soviets rising. Karov didn't seem like the person to make that kind of noise, and Rijon wouldn't have risen until the meeting was over. "The man seems determined to plunge the Czech state into a suicidal course. Our last negotiation with the man was a total failure. We'll try again. Anyways, make sure you integrate these reforms. This one here, for instance, levies the rations placed on these poor souls. With the Americans suffering in Vietnam, we can afford to assist our ardent supporters."

Carmella heard the sarcasm in his tone, and she knew that Rijon did not.

"That's very nice," the Governor said simply.

"For this next, Governor, I'd like to speak in private." Chairs scraped across the tiles and footsteps rang out as the two men began to leave. "You're aware that Markov plans to come in December, assuming the snowfalls don't delay him?" Karov's voice faded out as the two men passed out of earshot. Carmella, knowing that there was no future in following the men, prepared to leave as well. The sunlight was beginning to fade as yet another October day drew to a close.

Carmella descended the steps, exiting the building. She forced a smile at the guards and drivers outside, all of whom averted their eyes. Carmella restrained herself from running, wanting to avoid any attention. In truth, however, her thoughts had flown ahead. She'd heard nothing solid to offer Angel, which likely ensured another beating for Carmella. Angel, Carmella thought bitterly, was no angel.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Years of life on the streets, years of training with Sef Kocicka sharpened her senses and honed her reactions. Carmella slipped into the nearest alleyway, turning in a single movement to watch the road. The footsteps continued in an odd rhythm that Carmella identified as skipping. Who would be crazy enough to skip around Prague, currently a town of poverty, at sunset?

A girl skipped past the alleyway, oblivious to Carmella's scrutiny. The girl was young, about Carmella's age, and slightly prettier. Her face looked flushed, a dull crimson color. Her curly hair bobbed at every step, and a strange melody hummed between her rosy lips. Her clothes were foreign, and this more than anything piqued Carmella's interest. She was about to emerge from the alley when some sixth sense gave her pause. Another figure appeared, moving after the skipping innocent with hostile steps. Carmella shrank back into the alleyway, recognizing the pursuer as Vyu Lishov, a brutal member of Sef Kocicka. There was something about the massive figure, some aura that resonated malice.

Vyu Lishov had his eyes open at birth. He had been a massive baby at birth, in 1922. Lishov had been the product of a black mother and a white father. His own complexion was somewhere in between, making him the target of all kinds of ridicule and hatred. Sef Kocicka itself at laughed at him when he attempted to join, until he single-handedly killed three of its members. From then on, not a word was breathed about his skin. At age eighteen, in 1940, Lishov joined the Nazi party (officially, not the Hitler Youth) in Germany, enjoying the dark power he had in exterminating members of a world that had—in his mind—born him little kindness. Lishov's parents had been innocent, yet both had perished in that war. His mother was killed by Nazis. His father was murdered in an Allied bombing. Lishov hadn't cared. He felt nothing to his parents, since age sixteen, he'd felt nothing for them. They were obstacles, obstructions, always trying to hold him back. Noticing the direction the bloody wind sailed, in 1944, Lishov fled to Czechoslovakia, only months before the Nazi regime collapsed. Within three years, he'd located and joined Sef Kocicka, lending his talents to the cruel art of killing. Nobody knew why he killed. Lishov never passed on money, but the greed was weaker in him than in other members. He took a perverse pleasure in the fright of his victims, always drawing out and milking his atrocities to the last drop. God was dead, Lishov reasoned, so why not have some fun in the world?

And now this brute stalked an innocent girl down an alleyway. Completely oblivious to Carmella, the tiger followed his prey. Carmella remained frozen, this time paralyzed by uncertainty rather than fear. She didn't even know that girl, yet she felt the oddest urge to assist her, to warn her somehow. Carmella had never considered Lishov before, but tonight, something seemed wrong about what he was doing, what he was planning. Something made Carmella want to protect that innocent little rose. Carmella laughed at her weakness but was unable to shake it off. With trembling legs, she trailed after Lishov, cursing her heart not for the first time that day.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 10

Patrick Shepard moved briskly toward his apartment, if it could be called that, eager to escape the chilling embrace of dusk. The sky was darker than it was bright. The sun had appeared today, he had noted with joy, but it was weak and powerless. It was as if the sun had opened one bleary eye, peeked at Prague, and then closed its eye and rolled over, unwilling to watch the land below.

Patrick was having difficulties in securing a job. He had come close today before inadvertently insulting the interviewer. He berated himself now for not having a better handle of Czech. The language proved difficult to master, and Patrick knew that speaking English would have been a stupid idea.

The dull glow of streetlights flickered alongside the streets, although many of the glass cases remained dark. Their radiance only illuminated a small portion of the surrounding area, but the sky was not yet dark enough to make visibility zero. The buildings stood against the bleak horizon, stretching out as far as the light would allow the eye to see. Prague appeared dark and colorless, a mere shadow of its former grandeur. New York had looked magnificent compared to this wasteland. Neon lights were always blazing, and the streets were never cleared of people. Here, beggars and urchins crept to their hidey-holes when darkness came crashing down. The only similarity Patrick noticed between Prague and New York resided in the indifference of the rich to the sufferings of the poor. In both cities the men would step back, wiping the beggars' filthiness from their gleaming dress shoes.

An officer moved further down the street. Not wishing to be noticed, Patrick slid into an alley on his left. He moved down it, planning to navigate his way around the officer.

Instead, he collided with a young girl skipping down the alleyway. Both figures stumbled backward, the girl waving her arms to maintain her balance.

"I'm so sorry!" Patrick exclaimed in shock, instinctively reverting to his native tongue. The girl, remaining on her feet, looked at him with wide eyes. "You're not hurt, are you?" Patrick continued, glancing over the girl. She seemed to be startled but otherwise fine. The girl shook her head in answer to Patrick's question.

Patrick, at this point, was feeling rather bewildered. The girl had understood his question, which meant she knew English, which meant—based on her age—she couldn't possibly be Czech. The more Patrick studied her, the more convinced he became. The girl looked decidedly American.

"What are you doing here? It's not safe for someone your age to wander the streets alone!" Patrick had absolutely no idea how old the girl was. She looked to be fifteen.

"No, it most certainly isn't," an amused drawl sounded from behind the girl. She squeaked, whirling around while stepping backwards toward Patrick. A brute of a man appeared, glaring at the girl and Patrick with sunken, beady eyes. Muscles bulged on his arms, and Patrick gulped nervously. Patrick possessed far too womanly a figure to develop any muscles.

The massive figure facing Patrick was decidedly not American. His English passed, but it was heavily accented and broken. As Lishov moved forward, darkness seemed to move with the man. Some sixth sense warned Patrick about this man.

"Step aside, American," Lishov grunted. "You might survive if you do." Patrick retreated, dragging the girl with him. Lishov's gaze followed them. "Okay then. Have it your way." He lumbered toward Patrick. Patrick risked glancing at the child behind him.

"Go, girl! Get out of here!" Patrick hissed violently. The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back, shaking her head. "Go!" Patrick repeated. He turned back toward Lishov in time to meet a meaty fist hurtling toward his face. Squealing in shock, Patrick dodged backwards and fell to the ground. His head collided with the ground, and the stars suddenly seemed to be a lot lower. Dazed, Patrick lay in a fuddle as Lishov stood over him. Then the burly man leaned down, intending to finish the task. The girl watched, petrified, as Lishov's hand fell upon Patrick's neck.

There was a slight whistling sound, followed by a _thump_. Lishov blinked stupidly before falling off of Patrick. The girl looked to see another girl standing by Lishov, clutching a partially rusted iron pipe. The other girl looked over, her trembling hand forcing her to drop the pipe. It clattered to the ground.

"I should thank you," Patrick said. He was on his knees now. The other girl glanced into his eyes for a moment. Then she fled, back down the way she had come. "Wait!" Patrick called, but the girl didn't listen. Soon, darkness swallowed her.

Patrick cast an uneasy glance at Lishov's prone figure. Then he switched his gaze to the girl.

"Come on," he offered his hand. "We should go before he wakes up." The girl looked from Lishov to Patrick's hand before grasping it with her own. Her hand was small, but her grip was powerful. Patrick led her away from the darkness of the alleyway. He'd get her home, he promised himself. He'd get this poor, innocent girl home.


End file.
